


Be still my love

by Snowflakesandangels



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Brain Damage, Caregiving, Descriptions of Injury, Fanart, Geographical Inaccuracies, HYDRA Trash Party, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 00:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflakesandangels/pseuds/Snowflakesandangels
Summary: Filling this prompt from the Hydra trashmeme:Steve and Bucky are finally reunited after Bucky heals (mostly) from his WS programming, but the happily ever after still eludes them - Steve is captured (by HYDRA?), tortured and raped and mind-wiped, over and over again, so many times that by the time Bucky manages to find and rescue him he's completely broken.





	1. I miss you my valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Be Still" by Bush:  
> [Official lyric video](https://youtu.be/oVxtNr-FeFI)  
> [Text lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bush/bestillmylove.html)
> 
> This song was a big inspiration for both the fic and art, so please take a listen/look for the full angsty experience ♡

 

Bucky snuggles deeper under the blankets, chasing the giant warm spot Steve left behind when he went out for his run. His mind's fuzzy, comfortable, not quite awake enough to roll over and face the day.  
  
When Steve gets back they’ll have a nice slow shower together, a hot breakfast, maybe go to the library or the gallery to check on Steve's painting.  
  
He's so proud of that painting; Steve's first since coming out of the ice. It's beautiful; the Manhattan skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge, painted with wild abandon in glorious sunrise colors; pinks, blues, and yellows dancing off the canvas like goddamn springtime itself.  
  
If he wasn't so keen to have the whole world see just how talented his man is, Bucky would keep every one for himself and put them all up in the living room.  
  
_It’s okay, though_ ; he thinks fuzzily as he settles into the blankets, snagging a few more minutes sleep before his alarm goes off; _Steve’s already planning anoth..._  
  
...  
  
The alarm had gone off that morning just as Bucky's eyes had started to close, jerking him from sleep with that annoying Tchaikovsky ringtone Natasha programmed into his phone. Rolling over, he'd grumbled a four letter word under his breath, grabbed the thing off the table and squinted at it.  
  
12:32  
  
Dang, how long had Steve let him sleep in?  
  
"STRIKE's back." Natasha’d gritted out, pushed on before Bucky even had a chance to say hello. "They've got Steve."  
  
No.  
  
No.  
  
Oh, God, please, no...  
  
"Barnes?"  
  
"Where."  
  
"An empty warehouse in Red Hook. We think they grabbed him on his way to the park this morning."  
  
We. Sam, Natasha. While Bucky had slept the goddamn day away.  
  
The sound of a metal fist going through an exposed brick wall echoed loudly in the silent bedroom where Steve wasn't. 

...

  
Bucky hadn’t even looked at Rumlow's scarred corpse once it hit the floor, six of Nat's bullets having obliterated what was left of its face. His one and only concern had been getting Steve out of that fucking chair.  
  
"Steve."  
  
His throat closed tight around the stench of charred flesh and burning hair. Steve's hair. They'd shaved chunks out of the sides so they could clamp his head into that goddamned machine and fry his brains out.  
  
"Baby, please."  
  
There was so much blood. Steve's whole body from upper lip to thigh was slick with it, clotted, red. They’d beaten him. Broken his nose. Carved their fucking mascot into his chest and packed rock salt into the wound.  
  
"Please, please, please..."  
  
Naked. Reeking from being strapped into the chair for hours in his own fluids. Christ God, Bucky prayed they were his own...  
  
"Stevie?"  
  
"Buck..." Sam's hand had come down on his shoulder. Heavy, final. "They had the machine set to max."  
  
Bucky cradled Steve's face in his hands, gently wiped away blood and tears and a future he’d refused to acknowledge while Steve had stared past him, caught someplace where nothing hurt anymore.  
  
At least they'd allowed him that.  
  
...  
  
Steve's fingers glide over the bright blobs of paint, tracing the outline of the Empire State Building. The room’s sunny, overlooking the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. Bucky's hands are gentle where they're pressed on top of Steve's, guiding his fingers over the once familiar lines.  
  
Over and over and over.  
  
_Bucky's so proud of that painting._  
  
"See that 'scraper, pal? We went up there when it was first built. Smuggled my dad's Kodak up there so we could try an’ take a picture of your house."  
  
Steve doesn't blink, not much, anyway. The drops in his eyes help a little, with the dryness.  
  
_His first since coming out of the ice._  
  
"And that one?" Bucky goes on, moving their hands a few inches to the right. "That's Tony's place. Ya know he's renovated it again? In chrome, it's awful, looks like a giant coffee pot or something."  
  
Steve doesn't laugh, or smile, or speak. Not really. Bucky misses it. He does, can't help it.  
  
_It’s beautiful; the Manhattan skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge, painted with wild abandon in glorious sunrise colors-_  
  
"There's a great new café in this one." Bucky says, running Steve's fingertips over a place daubed in a cheerful purple. "Nat says we should check it out. Real good coffee, I guess."  
  
Steve eats through a tube in his stomach now. Three times a day. Seven days a week. Fifty two weeks a year. Bucky makes sure he gets tastes of his favorite flavors on his tongue, so he doesn't miss out.  
  
_-pinks, blues, and yellows dancing off the canvas like goddamn springtime itself._  
  
"There's the carousel, too." Bucky muses quietly, more to himself than to Steve. He wonders if Steve would enjoy it. His chair's great, Tony tricked the hell out of it, but it's... Steve can walk, his legs are fine, his brain just doesn't remember how to put one foot in front of the other anymore.  
  
Bucky presses a kiss to the side of Steve's head. His hair's grown back so thick and soft, not a gray in sight. Bucky runs his fingers through it at night, whispering funny stories until Steve falls asleep, then he rolls over and cries.  
  
He doesn't mean to mourn for Steve, God knows, but it's hard, not knowing if he's still in there. Bucky prays he's not in there... that would be... he can't. He's been there, he can't...  
  
Steve sighs, an autonomic nerve response to sitting propped up for too long. Bucky pulls Steve's chair away from the easel, slips his arms under Steve's knees and behind his back. Steve’s head comes to rest in the crook of his shoulder as he carries him over to the couch so they can cuddle.  
  
"I gotcha, baby." He does. He does. Always.  
  
They lay like that for a long time, no time at all. Bucky cradling Steve's back to his chest, being careful of his feeding tube, checking occasionally for dampness between his legs, pats his chest, scars long since healed. Most of them.  
  
Bucky's watch beeps around sunset and he gets Steve fed, cleaned up, briefs changed and skin lovingly bathed of the day's sweat. He doesn't mind any of it, not really, because it's Steve. It's Steve.  
  
It’s been awhile, but his hands remember.  
  
"Been a long day, pal." Bucky says, tucking the covers up around Steve's chest, smooths the hair out of his eyes, kisses him goodnight. Bucky lies down beside him, snuggles deeper under the blankets, still chasing warm spots while he tells a funny story.  
  
Steve's eyes finally close when the light goes out, when Bucky's cried himself to sleep. A single tear drips from the corner of his eye, settles cold and wet inside his ear.  
  
_Night, Buck._

 


	2. I don’t know what to do for your bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus art showing the aftermath of Steve's torture.

**Author's Note:**

> Made for the HTP Holiday Mixup!


End file.
